The Turmoil, a novel eBook

“All right,” said Roscoe, drooping under
the torture. “It’s all true.”

“What you goin’ to do about it?”

Roscoe’s head was sunk between his shoulders.
“I can’t stand very much talk about it,
father,” he said, pleadingly.

“No!” Sheridan cried. “Neither
can I! What do you think it means to me?”
He dropped into the chair at his big desk, groaning.
“I can’t stand to talk about it any more’n
you can to listen, but I’m goin’ to find
out what’s the matter with you, and I’m
goin’ to straighten you out!”

Roscoe shook his head helplessly.

“You can’t straighten me out.”

“See here!” said Sheridan. “Can
you go back to your office and stay sober to-day,
while I get my work done, or will I have to hire a
couple o’ huskies to follow you around and knock
the whiskey out o’ your hand if they see you
tryin’ to take it?”

“You needn’t worry about that,”
said Roscoe, looking up with a faint resentment.
“I’m not drinking because I’ve got
a thirst.”

“Well, what have you got?”

“Nothing. Nothing you can do anything
about. Nothing, I tell you.”

“We’ll see about that!” said Sheridan,
harshly. “Now I can’t fool with
you to-day, and you get up out o’ that chair
and get out o’ my office. You bring your
wife to dinner to-morrow. You didn’t come
last Sunday—­but you come to-morrow.
I’ll talk this out with you when the women-folks
are workin’ the phonograph, after dinner.
Can you keep sober till then? You better be
sure, because I’m going to send Abercrombie
down to your office every little while, and he’ll
let me know.”

Roscoe paused at the door. “You told Abercrombie
about it?” he asked.

“Told him!” And Sheridan laughed
hideously. “Do you suppose there’s
an elevator-boy in the whole dam’ building that
ain’t on to you?”

Roscoe settled his hat down over his eyes and went
out.

CHAPTER XXI

So sang Bibbs, his musical gaieties inaudible to his
fellow-workmen because of the noise of the machinery.
He had discovered long ago that the uproar was rhythmical,
and it had been intolerable; but now, on the afternoon
of the fourth day of his return, he was accompanying
the swing and clash of the metals with jubilant vaquero
fragments, mingling improvisations of his own among
them, and mocking the zinc-eater’s crash with
vocal imitations:

Fearless and bold,
Chang! Bash! Behold!
With a leap from the ground
To the saddle in a bound,
And away—­and
away!
Hi-yay! Who looks a chang, chang, bash, crash,
bang! Who cares a dash how you bash and
you crash? Night’s
on the wayeach time
I say,
Hi-yay!
Crash, chang! Bash, chang!
Chang, bang, bang!